"I'm going to confession tomorrow," Natasha muttered, finally pulling her hand back from under her skirt with a wet sound she pretended not to hear. "And the next day. And possibly every day until I die."
Gianna just leaned back into the couch, removing her hand from between her legs with zero shame. She looked at her glistening fingers in the dim light, then—slowly, deliberately—wiped them on the arm of the couch.
"Well," she said, "that was illuminating."
The video kept playing.
On screen, Phei produced a handkerchief—and began cleaning Delilah with careful, deliberate strokes. Wiping her thighs. Soaking up their combined mess. Treating her like something precious that he'd claimed and now needed to tend.
Like a gardener with a prized flower.
Like a collector with a new acquisition.
Then he folded the ruined cloth.
And put it in his pocket.
Keeping it.
"Oh, that's—" Amber's voice caught. Her throat was so dry. "That's actually kind of..."
